User blog comment:Bartholomew Bilberry Bowstring/The First of Many/@comment-26024035-20160425040834/@comment-26024035-20160501184016

It took a journey of about an hour made two with the weight of the cart, filled with Elm's grumpiness and Rissah's cheeky smirks.

The camp was a thriving lake of tents and creatures. Goods and supplies either stood about or were stacked in piles as soldiers and workbeasts inspected the contents, barrels and crates, baskets of fruits and vegetables, racks of weaponry and armor.

And at the center of this hub of activity, this camp built upon the grassland of an ancient pine grove, lay the biggest workplace of them all, covered by a sweeping canopy of cloth held up by stakes in the ground. A young badger in an apron strode out, carrying an armfull of longswords that he gently deposited within an empty barrel with a clatter. Elmseye nodded his head as he hauled the cart along, sweat on his brow. "That... that's him. That's the smith."